Tagging blind with a man

Throwing the head back in laughter or the folding the laughter back in the head, he dispels all the doubt as I breathe into sudden normalcy. But, to think of it, I had been hoping for exactly the opposite somewhere deep down, no deepest, at the same pit of the vertical well of spiraling madness that hangs just a rung, suspended from my stomach. I was lifting and depositing huge boulders of literal, dried, thickened cement there and going in an eight formation only to collapse in the last shadowy cold portions of the caves that sprout from each spiral section of the stairwell. The well is just one of the morbid fleeting emotions you evoke when you bind me up in circular posters and plaits of black cloth, hook me by the arm and take me on a stroll in some black cube. It blinds me, little fleeting betrayals of emotions, all terrified, all jutted and ashamed, melting, drowning and sinking in my own lugged, gassed flipping doors, one by one, open and close, close then open, then regret then relapse, resolutions, I knew the better of me then, or wait! It is now that I have what I should. I am blind, not seeing but hearing the constant mumble, the low rumble, that like of leaves, of the only language I have not known, of bolted bronze locks, thud! The sound of the world tightly knotted in your fists while you strut me around the arm, of the only little place that I cannot squiggle into. All remedies in vain. I am begging on the knees and searching each inch of the relic for overlooked openings. Such terror of the polished beauty, sure of its worth. Makes you feel all sand like, being poured again and again, slithering effortlessly down to the same ground, squirming in limited ability.